Angelic
by Two-Bits
Summary: SLASH and HET I want to call a truce.
1. Death Is But The Next Adventure

General POV

Something was coming.

Shakespeare didn't know what it was, but she could feel it. Call it instinct, call it woman's intuition. But whatever it was, it was going to be big.

With a bounce in her step, Shakespeare made her way to the distribution apparatus. That is, until she ran into somebody.

"Oomf!" she exclaimed, stumbling.

"Sorry! I wasn't looking where I was going!" someone replied, pulling her up.

"No, no. My fault. I had my head in the clouds," she apologized. He grinned at her, and she blushed. It was a boy about her age, tall and lanky, with curly, golden-brown hair and tan skin. "Uh, I gotta get my papes," she stammered. He tipped his hat to her, and she hurried off.

Get your head out of the clouds, Shakespeare! she berated herself, after losing yet another customer to the pretty blonde across the road. Shakespeare shot her a glare. Her good looks and flirtatious smile were dragging in gentlemen of all ages.

Shakespeare struggled, but she still managed to sell all her papers by nightfall. Her stomach was growling, but she'd have to nick some bread. She didn't have enough to pay for board and food. She reached for a loaf of bread, grabbed it, and took off running, ignoring the shouts of the baker.

She skidded to a halt when she came to Delancey street. It was lit up with flames. The trolley strikers had lit a trolley on fire, and they were beating up a couple of guys who probably didn't join. The cops showed up, and tried to subdue the riot, but suddenly shots sounded.

When Shakespeare realized they were shooting guns, she turned to run home, but a single shot sounded, and it seemed to deafen every other sound. Gasping, Shakespeare clapped a hand to her stomach. Drawing it away, she saw that her palm was stained with blood.

The lifeless body of Lisa "Shakespeare" Johnson fell to the ground.


	2. Angel?

Shakespeare's POV

When I opened my eyes, the first thing I noticed was white. Not crisp, insane asylum white, but clean, wholesome light that was just gold enough to soften, but not enough not to be considered white. It had a surreal air to it.

I sat up and stretched my cramped wings, wondering where I was.

Wait...Wings?

Gasping, I looked up. Above my head, stretching out of my back, were two long, elegant, feathery-white wings. I glanced down. The rest of me was the same. I wore my tan tunic, a vest, brown pants, and a pair of dirty boots.

Suddenly, the memories flooded back, and my hand flew to my stomach. But there was no blood. Untucking my shirt, I saw only a round scar.

"You are awake," said a deep, kindly voice. I spun around. It was an old man dressed in robes of brilliant white.

"Who are you?" He smiled at me, and I felt my heart warm.

"I am Saint Peter," he replied. I immediately crossed myself.

"What happened?" I asked, though I knew the answer.

"You died. However, your purpose does not end there. You are to become a Guardian Angel." I smiled. My mother used to tell me stories of guardian angels. She told me that everyone gets one, and they watch over you and advise you.

"Who am I guarding?" I asked. He smiled, his eyes twinkling.

"You shall see."


	3. I'm Your Guardian Angel

Racetrack's POV

Beep-bip. Beep-bip. Beep-bip. Beep-bip. Beep-bip. Beep-bip. Beep-bip.

Yawning, I reached for my alarm clock, to turn it off, but I couldn't find it without opening my eyes, an action that was out of the question.

Beep-bip. Beep-bip. Beep-bip. Beep-bip. Beep-bip-

It went off.

Opening my eyes, I looked over at my clock. Was it broken? It looked fine.

"Annoying machines," someone muttered.

"Yeah, I know!" I agreed, around a yawn. I jumped, suddenly, and looked up. Hovering above me was a red-headed, green-eyed girl with angel wings stretching out of her back. She looked just as surprised to see me as I was to see her.

"You can see me?" she asked, sounding shocked. I stared at her.

"Of course I can see you! You're right there!" She didn't say anything. Her eyes glazed over, like she was listening to a voice only she could hear. Then she disappeared.

"Where'd you go?" I leapt out of bed, spinning around. I probably looked incredibly stupid, but I didn't care. Then she reappeared.

"That is incredible!" she exclaimed. I nearly yelped with surprise.

"Quit DOING THAT!" I exclaimed. She grinned, apologetically.

"Sorry. I'm new to this." I stared at her.

"New to what?" I demanded. She grinned.

"I'm, uh, your guardian angel." I stared at her, then sat down, heavily.

"My-my guardi-What?" She nodded.

"I died, but I wasn't supposed to, so I'm your guardian angel. I'm here to protect you." My jaw dropped.

"Okay, well, uh...I'm...Racetrack. What's your name?" I began, awkwardly.

"I'm Shakespeare." I nodded.

"Okay, uh, Shakespeare-Can I call you Shakes?" I asked, suddenly. She laughed, and nodded. "Okay, Shakes, can you get out of here for a moment so I can change?"

"Yup. I'll be downstairs." With that, she disappeared again. I dressed quickly and bounded down the stairs, rather excited. It was like a sugar high, or something.

"Morning, mama!" I said, sitting at the counter, next to Shakespeare. Mama gave me an odd look.

"Anthony, what're you so happy about?" she asked. I glanced over at Shakespeare as a thought occurred to me.

"She can't see or hear me. Only you and other angels can." I nodded.

"Nothin', Mama. I'm just in a good mood today."

"First day of school excitement," she said, knowingly, setting a plate of sausages in from of me.

I nearly choked on my milk.

"It's the first day of school!" She laughed.

"Did you forget?" I nodded. "Si, it's the first day of school." She glanced at the clock. "And you'd better hurry, or you'll be late!" I downed my breakfast and raced out of the house.

"C'mon!" I shouted. "We're going to be late for school!" She laughed at me.

"Actually, only you are going to be late. It doesn't matter if I am!" I stopped, then grinned up at her, sheepishly.

"Oh, right. I'm the visible one." I got in my car, and she flew above me. Apparently she had just gotten her wings, because she was flying above me, doing loops and figure eights, just enjoying the warm morning.

"Hey, Race!" called a familiar voice.

"Hiya, Kid!" I replied, jumping out of the car. I glanced up at Shakespeare. "Does he have an angel?"

"Yep. Her name's Moonlight. She died in a boating accident over in the East River."

"Ready for the first day of school?" Kid asked, when I caught up with him.

"More than you know," I replied.


	4. Who's That Boy?

Shakespeare's POV

"Hi" I said, cheerfully, hovering next to Kid Blink's angel. She smiled shyly at me.

"Hello. I'm Moonlight. Are you Racetrack's angel?" I nodded.

"I'm Shakespeare. Just started this morning," I answered. "How long have you been Kid's angel?" The other angel smiled, sadly.

"For a month and a half. His mother was diagnosed with cancer. They gave her six months, but she didn't make it that far, even. Why are you here?" she asked curiously. I shrugged.

"Actually, I have no ide-" I was cut off, immediately, as I felt a twisting in my stomach. It was weird. It was the same way I'd felt the day I died, when I met that boy. Only, I wasn't feeling it.

I was feeling Racetrack feeling it.

"Have a nice summer, Shorty?" Racetrack sneered. He had come face-to-face with a short boy with pale skin, dirty blond hair, and icy blue eyes.

"It was fine until right about now, oh ye of the astonishing height of five-foot-four," the boy replied. I was so confused. I could tell there was something about this boy that was important, but I couldn't figure it out. Then it hit me.

Racetrack had a crush on this boy...

...and he didn't even know it.

"Who is that boy?" I asked Moonlight. Her lip curled in distaste.

"That's Spot Conlon. He came over here from Brooklyn. He had an abusive mother. He lives with a foster family, now, but he's still bitter. He's had his angel all his life."

"Who's his angel?" I asked, looking around. Moonlight shrugged.

"She doesn't show herself. I don't think even Spot knows she's there. But she is. I can sense it."

"See you around, Conlon," Racetrack spat.

"I won't be looking forward to it, Higgins," he replied, with just as much menace. The bell rang, loudly, almost deafening me, as I was hovering right next to it.

"I'll see you third period, Race" Kid Blink said, walking away.

"As will I," Moonlight agreed, waving at me. I followed Racetrack into his first period class, which was, he informed me, math with "that evil skankwhore witch, Miss Larkson." Racetrack sat at his desk and pulled out some paper and a pencil, just as a woman of about thirty-five came in. She looked like the kind of woman who tried to be young, but failed miserably.

She had purple eyeshadow, and she wore a pink suit, which clashed horribly with her orange hair.

"That would be Miss Larkson?" I asked, folding my legs, Indian-style, and hovering in the air. He nodded.

"Yeah. She's a real bitch. Most math teachers are, but she's especially evil." I nodded.

"What've you got against Spot?" I asked, innocently. Racetrack gave a short laugh.

"Mr. Higgins, do you have something amusing to share with the rest of the class?" Miss Larkson snapped, sharply. Racetrack jumped, then smiled, easily, at her.

"Nope. I think I'll keep it to myself, thanks." She glared at him, then continued teaching. "Don't even get me started on Spot Conlon," Racetrack muttered, barely over a whisper.

"What's wrong with him?" I asked, watching as Larkson began to scribble barely legible numbers on the board.

"He's just an insufferable jerk" Racetrack replied. "He came over from Brooklyn, and since day one he's been really rude to everyone except for Two-Bits."

"Who's Two-Bits?" I asked, immediately. Racetrack nodded to a short redhead sitting four seats over.

"She's Spot's friend, and the only one. She's the only one he's nice to, and she's the only one nice to him" Race said, doodling on his paper in order to gain the appearance that he was taking notes. "Not that he deserves it" he added. I frowned.

"Did you know that his mother beat him every night?" I said, softly. Racetrack's pencil clattered to the floor.


	5. What!

Shoutouts!

Kid Blink's Dreamer: Yeah, no shit.

Unknown-Dreams: _Spaz..._Anyway, hell YEAH we need Sprace action!

...Unfortunately, it'll take a while. That is, if there is any at all...

Slightly: Pffffft...There will be.

Shut up, Slightly.

* * *

Racetrack's POV

"Mister Higgins, _please_ don't make such a ruckus!" Miss Larkson shrieked. I rolled my eyes. She could be so…_stupid_ at times. You'd think I'd just dropped a nuclear bomb, as opposed to a pencil. Shakes gave me an apologetic look.

"Tell me later," I muttered. As much as I despised my math teacher, I couldn't afford to disrupt her class any more today. She'd blow the coop. So, I sat through the rest of math, making unidentifiable scribbles that would make Van Gogh jealous. (Cough) The bell finally rang, and I dashed out of the classroom, ignoring Larkson's glares, and headed for second period, which was English. Instead of heading straight for English, however, I took a detour that brought me to the deserted courtyard our school has been blessed with.

"What do you mean, beat him?" I demanded, though I knew perfectly well what that meant. No matter how much Spot Conlon pisses me off, I'd never wish that on him.

"I mean, his mother hit him every night. Nobody ever knew until she pulled out the baseball bat. A neighbor came over to drop off some mail delivered to the wrong house. He saw her through the storm door and burst in on them. Spot's living with foster parents now," Shakespeare said sadly, using her wings to balance on her toes on a picnic table. I sat down. Hard.

"Are you serious?" I breathed. She nodded.

"Why else do you think he's so bitter?" she replied. I looked up, and in my imagination, I could see a five-year-old Spot, bruised and bloody, crying on the swingset.


	6. A Truce

Shoutouts!

Unknown-Dreams: Indeed you are. Sprace will come eventually. But probably not until the end.

Pancakes: I think 'like' is an understatement. SPRACE IS LOVE!

Slightly: Shut _up_.

Oh, shut it, Slightly. You're just jealous 'cause I haven't slashed you yet.

Slightly: Uhm...May I point out I'm ten?

Oh. Right-o.

itsasledgehammer: Yeah, I get the feeling, too. Especially when he says "That ain't good enough, Jack." It looks like there's a story behind that. -is inspired- OOH!

Slightly: Oh boy.

Kid Blink's Dreamer: Tell me about it. Ah...I haven't heard that in a long time!

* * *

Shakespeare's POV

I hovered guiltily over Racetrack as he stared at his palms, shocked. "Race…I know it's hard, but…" I trailed off. I didn't know what to say. I wasn't good at comforting people. "Just…Maybe hating Spot isn't such a good idea. You shouldn't make life hard for him, when he's had a tough life since the day he was born." I dropped my voice to a murmur. "He's had his angel all his life."

I think that's what most did it for Race. The fact that Spot Conlon had such a terrible childhood that he was _born_ with a guardian angel was such a shock. I knew what was happening. Racetrack had had such a sheltered life; he'd _known_ about things like child abuse, murder, rape, but he'd never actually been affected by it.

"What do I do?" he asked helplessly, looking up at me. I sunk down to sit next to him.

"Call a truce. Tell him you don't want to fight anymore. Invite him to see a movie, or something," I advised. He nodded, still dazed.

"Yeah…Yeah, a movie…"

I followed him back into the school to his English class, taught by a creepy man named Bryan Denton. Denton glared at him and demanded an explanation for being late, but Race just sat down in the back, muttering something about, "Had to go to the bathroom."

Race and I spent the period talking; he would write down questions on a sheet of paper, and I would talk to him, since no one could hear me anyway. The bell rang, and Denton was less displeased with Race, because he seemed to be under the impression that Racetrack was taking notes.

"Hey, Conlon!" Race called as he spotted Spot in the hallway.

"_Spot!_" I scolded.

"Right, sorry, Spot!" Race corrected himself. Spot turned around, surprised to see Racetrack hurrying toward him.

"Can I help you?" Spot asked coolly, leaning against the lockers. Race opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

"I'd like to call a truce," I murmured. Race repeated it.

"You _what?_" Spot demanded, not sure what he was hearing.

"I'd like to call a truce!" Race said, crossing his fingers for luck. Spot's jaw dropped. I felt my face growing hot, and my stomach clenching. Race was incredibly nervous.

"A…truce?" Spot repeated. "Ah, _no._" I sagged with disappointment.

"Why _not?_" I demanded, forgetting that Spot couldn't see or hear.

"Why not?" Race repeated. Spot snorted and paused, as if waiting for the punch line.

"You're serious?" he asked, finally. Racetrack nodded, earnestly. Spot studied him for a minute.

"All right. But if I get one whiff of foul play, you'll get the pounding of your life," he warned. Racetrack grinned, and I gave a shout of triumph.

"YES!"


End file.
